More Things In Heaven and Earth Read online

  Wednesday morning proved to be a lighter day for patients, and, much to my delight, my arrangement with the town gave me Wednesday afternoons off. At noon I stopped by the Depot to grab lunch. The place was buzzing with the clatter of dishes and animated conversation. On the way in I said hi to a couple of familiar faces, but names were still a challenge. I received some friendly nods in response. Ironically, it seemed that despite their general openness and courteous nature, many of the people of Watervalley acted with an awkward reluctance toward me, as if uncertain about what to say. Privately, it was amusing, because I found myself in the same situation regarding them. I found a stool at the counter and read the paper over a plate of chicken fries.

  I came home to an empty house and was restless, not so much for company as for space and time. I went upstairs to my bedroom, where I noticed Connie had done the laundry and neatly stacked it on my bed. I changed clothes and headed back downstairs to ponder my options for an afternoon escape. I had heard there were some old trails by the lake, so I dug out my hiking boots, hopped in the hot Corolla, and headed in that direction.

  Watervalley Lake was a large kidney-shaped body of water that stretched a half mile in length. I eased the car onto the gravel parking lot and was quietly thankful that at present I was the only visitor.

  The area was well kept save for a dilapidated structure built out over the water. It was an enormous old bandstand with weathered railings and a sagging roof, clearly much past its glory days. A locked gate had been installed at the mouth of the short pier with a rusty NO TRESPASSING sign hanging on it. The scale and majesty of the building were fascinating. The old structure evoked a tremendous sense of story: a doorway into long-elapsed decades. It was puzzling. From what I had seen, most of the public structures of Watervalley were kept in pristine form, yet this one was a notable exception.

  On the far bank, a narrow stretch of grass bordered the lake at the edge of the woods. From there the hillside rose abruptly. I selected a trail that ran beside a creek and began to plod my way up. I eventually emerged upon a small pasture, a beautiful field of orchard grass. On the far side were several openings with no sure marking as to which trail to take. I choose one haphazardly, knowing that if I got lost, the way back would be always downhill.

  After a while I came upon an old farm road that was little more than two dirt tire tracks with tall, broken grass in the middle. I followed it a short distance and came upon a fence with an old metal farm gate. Beyond it was a perfectly groomed apple orchard, a picturesque meadow of meticulously trimmed trees standing in crisp rows above lawn-tight grass. I was intrigued, but the orchard did seem out of place. It had a stately, eerie presence, as if it had somehow risen magically out of the tangled undergrowth and confusion of the woods.

  I climbed over the gate and walked around the lower perimeter of the grove. The trees were heavy with green apples, some showing the slight blush of ripening. About halfway down the length, I saw a lone apple that had fallen from its branch, lying enticingly in the short grass. When I bent over to pick it up, I heard a gun cock and a deep, firm voice say, “Just what in hell are you doing?”

  I was startled. I stood up and turned around in a single motion, dropping the apple in the process. Standing a few feet away was a tall, large-boned man in his late fifties shouldering a rifle aimed straight at me. He had thick, loosely parted gray blond hair, and despite his wild appearance, his scowling face had a certain handsomeness, albeit a hardness as well. He wore weathered khakis and a sweat-stained white button-down shirt over tautly muscled arms. I recognized him. He was the man who had given me directions at the County Line Market.

  “Whoa whoa whoa,” I blurted excitedly. “Don’t shoot.” I held up my hands in a defensive gesture.

  “And why shouldn’t I? You’re trespassing.” The voice was threatening yet without tension. It was the confident voice of a man who knew he was in full control of the situation, or perhaps any situation for that matter.

  I spoke rapidly. “Okay, fine. I’ll leave. But point that gun somewhere else.” I stood frozen.

  The man kept the gun leveled straight at me. “Where did you come from anyway?” His relaxed inquiry had the same controlled focus.

  “From town—from Watervalley.” I hesitated a few heavy seconds. Now that the initial shock of the moment had passed, a subtle defiance was welling up in me. “Look, I said you need to point that gun somewhere else. I’ll leave, but you’re inviting something stupid to happen. I’m not moving till you put that thing away.”

  A faint grin pressed through the scowl. The man stood for a moment, sizing me up. Casually he took the gun by the stock and rested it over his shoulder with the barrel pointing to the distant woods behind him.

  “Ballsy. I like that. What are you doing up here? Hold it—I hope you’re not another jackass for Jesus sent up by the little steeple people. Because if you are, I really am going to shoot you in the ass.”

  “Hey—” I said firmly. I stood square shouldered to the man. “Nobody sent me. I’m new to town. I’m a doctor. I just wanted to get out of the house, take a hike. So chill out and I’ll be gone in a minute.”

  Now his entire countenance changed. He manner wasn’t exactly pleasant, but more one of reserved amusement.

  “Oh, good grief. You’re Bradford, aren’t you? Why didn’t you tell me that earlier? It would have saved this little tête-à-tête out here in the hot sun.”

  “I think it had something to do with you pointing a gun at me.”

  The man moved toward me. “Relax, Doc, it’s just a BB gun. I use it to shoot the grackles and crows that get in the orchard.” As he came closer, it was clear he was holding an air gun replica of a Winchester rifle. The realization provided little comfort. Whoever this man was, it seemed a good time to part company.

  “Yeah, well, you can get back to your bird safari and I’ll be making my way out of here.” I nodded and stepped past him toward the iron farm gate where I’d entered the orchard. After I walked several steps, he spoke again.

  “Hey, Doc.”

  Disgusted, I turned around and faced him. “What?”

  He was standing casually, grinning, the gun still propped over his shoulder. He looked into the distance. His words were calculating. “I’m guessing that you’re not completely sure how you got here, because if you were, you sure as hell wouldn’t be trespassing on my property. That tells me you’re not completely sure how to get back.”

  I considered the comment for a moment. It was, of course, entirely accurate. This guy might be slightly nuts, but he wasn’t stupid. It still didn’t matter. I was ready to skedaddle.

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Yeah.” He scratched his chin and nodded, again looking toward the distant valley. “You probably will. Then again, there are a lot of old cow paths and blackberry thickets between here and the lake. It could make for a hot, miserable afternoon.”

  We stared at each other in cool assessment. It was clear we each knew the language of competition and assertion. But it seemed that, for both of us, the opposite ground—the realm of conciliatory and accommodating behavior—was much more foreign and much less attractive. For both of us, it was easier to start a fight than to end it, to declare war than try to negotiate peace. A long, silent moment of appraisal passed. I held the edge of my lower lip lightly between my teeth, deliberating. “So what do you propose?” I finally asked.

  “Well, come on up to the house. It’s a short walk up the hill. I can either draw you a map or give you a ride. Your choice.”

  I pondered the offer and nodded. “All right. Fair enough.” As he spoke, I stepped toward him. Now within arm’s length of each other, we stood in silence. Oddly, the encounter had invoked a subtle air of camaraderie. Yet there remained a lingering contention between us.

  “Harris. John Harris.” He held out a large, weathered hand. I took it.

  “Hello, Harris. John Harris. Luke Bradford.” I had always been an athlete and had a stro
ng arm, but the man’s grip was so hard that it almost made me tear up. He nodded over his right shoulder.

  “C’mon. The house is this way.”

  I stood solid.

  He stopped and looked back. “What?”

  I returned a wry smile. “Before we go, I want that damn apple.”

  This evoked a large grin and an appeasing nod from John. He bent over, picked the apple up, and tossed it to me. “Suit yourself. But if you eat it, I hope you know a good doctor. Pretty green.”

  “The apple or the doctor?” I responded flatly.

  “One for sure. Too soon to tell about the other.” He headed up the hill.

  The thought occurred to me to bean him in the head with the apple and make a run for it. Instead, I followed him.

  CHAPTER 8

  A Most Interesting Man

  We walked through the grove, ascending a modest hill. On the north side of the fenced orchard was a rusted ornamental iron gate that opened onto a well-laid rock path. It cut through a stand of thick woods and undergrowth. The path climbed sharply to yet another elaborate wrought-iron gate mounted into a waist-high rock wall. Past the wall was a large, level yard covered with thick grass and shaded by generous oaks and maples.

  Rock-lined wildflower beds framed the contours of the estate, and across the wide lawn stood a stunning, steep-roofed house that sat perfectly on the small rise of the yard. Not massive, but large enough to be imposing, it was a complication of multiple rooflines, wood siding, stone foundation, and large exposures of glass. The design reminded me of a farmhouse I had once seen in the French countryside during a summer jaunt in my undergraduate years. The rock wall extended around the whole of the open area, likely a full two acres.

  We had negotiated the climb in silence and now continued across the soft grass toward the house. Despite the grand size of the yard, I noticed that careful design and forethought had been given to the selected plantings. In a far corner of the yard stood a modest English-garden-style greenhouse, the glass lightly streaked with chalky stains and the ornate copper long since turned to verdigris. The entire grounds and house wore a rustic elegance that spoke of educated taste, understated grace, and clear evidence of substantial money.

  As we neared the house, I felt the first wave of a soft breeze. Off the back was a large redwood deck that pushed out over the sharp drop of the yard and overlooked a generous opening in the trees. From the deck one would be able to see a perfect vista of Watervalley. It was from this opening that the breeze poured onto the yard.

  In the nearby grass sat a pair of white but slightly weathered Adirondack chairs with an antique wrought-iron table between them. The location offered an ideal vantage point from which to view the expanse of the valley below. As we passed I noticed on the table a short round drinking glass holding about an inch of what appeared to be diluted tea. A dead insect floated on the surface. It was the only thing out of place.

  Despite the mature appearance of the landscaping, the house looked new. The wood siding was a rich chestnut and the white trim was fresh and spotless. I broke the silence.

  “Nice place.”

  John continued walking and looked up momentarily as if to survey his property. “Yeah, it ain’t bad.”

  I stopped to take in the view. He took another step or two and then instinctively stopped to look also. I stared into the distance.

  “Quite a sight. You have a complete overlook of the town.”

  “Yeah, it’s like watching an anthill. Except ants have demonstrated some forms of intelligence. The verdict is still out on that bunch down there.”

  “So let me guess. You don’t have a real high opinion of the people of Watervalley.”

  “Med school certainly honed your assessment skills. You’ve been here now—what, less than a week, and you haven’t figured that out for yourself?” His voice was matter-of-fact, absent sarcasm.

  “I didn’t exactly start off on the best foot. So I guess I’m not particularly judgmental quite yet.”

  He continued to gaze out over the landscape and nodded.

  “So I heard. Not to worry, Doc. Idiots are a protected group in Watervalley.”

  “That’s very comforting. Thank you.”

  “Think nothing of it. You want something to drink?” He looked toward the door as a signal for me to follow him.

  Through the side mudroom we entered a massive kitchen with rough-hewn columns and a soaring vaulted ceiling with exposed beams. The kitchen ran along the entire back of the house with French doors leading outside. It was spectacular. Something about the place was inviting and pleasing, the obvious work of a decorator, which once again spoke of understated wealth. Someone with an eye for color, light, and space had clearly brought the elements of furniture, pictures, and finishings together. Even though I’d grown up in the affluent neighborhood of Buckhead, I thought this was probably one of the most beautiful rooms I had ever seen.

  “You want a beer?” John asked.

  “Think I’ll pass on that. If you don’t mind, water actually works for me.”

  “Suit yourself.” He reached into the refrigerator and brought out a bottled water for me and a beer for himself.

  “This is well put together. Have you lived here long?”

  “A little over three years. That’s when we built the house. But I’ve owned the land a lot longer. Probably about twenty years.”

  On the kitchen counter was a framed black-and-white photo of John and a very attractive brunette, taken at the beach. The couple appeared to be fortysomething. Given the changes in John’s appearance, I gauged the photo to be about ten years old.

  “This your wife?”

  John stared at the frame for a moment. “Yeah, that was her.”

  “Was?” I responded lightly.

  “She passed away. Couple of years ago.”

  “Sorry.” I gazed at the photo. “She was very pretty.”

  “Yeah, she was. She was quite a gal.” He took a long swallow of the beer. “Well, Doc, if you’re not in a big hurry, I’ll give you the ten-cent tour. I can draw you a map of the trail back, but you’ll be heading off right into the heat of the afternoon.” He paused, waiting for my response. Then he grinned and spoke again. “Besides, it’s rare to find someone in this county with an IQ above room temperature. Might be interesting for you to stay around a while.”

  I easily accepted the offer, the idea of returning to the empty house on Fleming Street presenting no immediate appeal. John’s manner had become more affable, and besides, the place was stunning. The house and grounds I had just seen were by far the most elaborate I had experienced thus far in Watervalley.

  We spent the next half hour ambling from the deck to the greenhouse to the small raised-bed garden, and then around the perimeter of the long rock wall. Surprisingly, John talked quite readily, going into modest detail about various plants, the origin of certain antiques, and the engineering difficulties they’d encountered in building the house.

  On a couple of occasions he mentioned his departed wife, Molly. Apparently, she had designed almost everything I had seen, including decorating the home and selecting the various flowers in the gardens throughout the property.

  The tour left John more relaxed. His tone became animated and he asked me about my education and background. It was not a probing interrogation, but a polite, methodical inquiry. He had a sharp intellect and, when he chose, was well accomplished in the art of conversation. At first I kept my responses somewhat clipped, not sure what to make of this curious, brooding man. But the exchange began to flow easily between us. Eventually, we wound up beside the two Adirondack chairs. Once again, I absorbed the tremendous view.

  “So there’s Watervalley.”

  “Yeah,” responded John, his tone of disgust returning.

  “Why all the angst about the folks in town?”

  “What? Those idiots? Humph. You live here long enough, you realize that you’re dealing with pretty narrow-minded people. And that’s al
l fine and good until you have to swallow a healthy dose of their Bible-thumping morality as a substitute for common sense.”

  “So I take it one or two of the folks from the congregations below have tried to pay you a visit. You know they do that here in the South. It’s not uncommon. You don’t usually have to point a gun at them to make them leave.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, but it gets much quicker results.”

  I laughed under my breath. “Maybe so. I don’t particularly care for that kind of thing either. But they’re hardly dangerous.”

  John took a last long swallow from his beer. He looked at me solemnly and then turned, gazing distantly toward Watervalley, pondering my words. Oddly, the long silence that followed felt in rhythm with our conversation. I instinctively knew that, with John, this was not a failing of social tact but rather an acceptance of my company, an understanding that there was no need to fill the gaps. A gloomy intensity began to tighten in his eyes as he stared at the rim of the far hills. Something in my comment had poked the cinders of a smoldering memory, a subdued but angry release of uncertain sparks. A seething voice seemed to be welling up from within him. When he finally spoke, his words were delivered coolly, penetrating the air with muted invective: “‘The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.’”

  I glanced sideways at him. “So, do you make a habit of quoting Shakespeare?”

  John looked at me, surprised. Something in my question had pleased him, releasing him from the spell of his thoughts. “Not bad, sawbones. Merchant of Venice, to be exact. Apparently you studied more than germs.”

  “Lucky guess, maybe. I have something of an uncanny ability to remember things. Still, I don’t get the connection.”

  John inhaled deeply and nodded toward the town. “There is no idiot more dangerous than the one who is convinced that he must undertake his purpose because God has whispered in his ear to do so.”